I want your hands on me

Words are often too much for me. I do not want to talk. My words are not helping me today. I want your hands on me.

I am not talking about a fuck. The contact I want skirts seduction by inches, all the skin that isn't erotic but is still the bridge to other regions. I want your hands to find the things I'm finding, the hardness of my collarbones, the soft white of my back, the baby skin of eyelids.

I have been chastised for being too touchy feely in bed, that I can't keep my hands to myself. I want my hands on you, tracing all the points where bones cause skin to rise up then ribbon out, all the places where softness finds dimension.

To not have to explain anything, to be, for once, completely understood.

It is a slow and steady torture to miss lying next to someone at night more than anything else that comes with a relationship, since it is often the very last step we find.